


Azolla

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a moment between Merry and Pippin in the ent-house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Azolla

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Based on p90 of The Two Towers where Merry and Pippin sleep at Treebeard’s ent-house.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Though it’s too giant by a long shot, it’s a nice bed, made of soft grass and ferns, and it’s the best Pippin’s had to sleep on in a while. The company is better, too. He and Merry are finally able to lie next to each other without guards in between, and they could talk all night if they wished without an orc snapping for them to stop, but they’ve already told Treebeard so much that even Pippin’s mouth is tired. Merry’s much the same. He hasn’t said a word since they settled down and Treebeard went out to stand in the rain. His eyes are closed, and in the pale light of the stars beyond the ent-house’s arch, he looks beautiful. 

He looks peaceful, rested, nourished, and the blood on his forehead’s been mopped away. There’s still a brown scar, and it hurts Pippin to see that, to think of Merry’s pain, but Merry hasn’t complained of it, so maybe it doesn’t bother him anymore. Sometimes, Pippin wishes Merry had been left back in the Shire, sweet and safe, but then, Pippin knows he couldn’t manage this alone. And he selfishly doesn’t want to be apart, no matter the danger. They were always close. Even more so than they were with Frodo, with Fatty. His biggest torture with the orcs wasn’t his own pain, but the fear of losing Merry. And now they’re free again, resting with trees again, much nicer than Old Man Willow. 

When Merry’s eyes flutter half open, Pippin feels himself smiling, mischievous, happy. Merry peers blearily at him, gives a half formed yawn, and murmurs, “What’re you staring at me for?” They’re close enough that Pippin can almost feel the words ghosting over his nose. If Merry were more awake, Pippin would tease, _you’re too beautiful to look away from_ , but when they’re quiet and more serious like this, it’s too likely Merry would pick out the truth in it.

So Pippin chirps, “There’s nothing much else to look at, is there?” He shrugs but doesn’t look away. He expects Merry to come back with a joke about how he has too much energy, even now, keeping his eyes open after all they’ve been through. But instead, Merry frowns, and it makes Pippin’s own smile falter.

Hushed and far too grave, Merry mutters, “Is it that ugly?”

“What?”

“My scar.” Merry lifts one hand to gingerly trace the cut above his brow, his nose wrinkling. For a few seconds, he just touches it, like he still can’t believe it’s there, a new groove in his face—hobbits aren’t accustomed to remolding like that. Even when the hand falls, he looks genuinely bothered, and he fidgets, and Pippin can tell that it bothers him a lot more than he’s trying to show. 

So Pippin drops the jokes, becomes just as serious, and promises, “It’s not ugly.” Merry winces, like he doesn’t believe it, and it doesn’t seem at all right on him—he’s supposed to be Pippin’s partner in crime, fun-loving and exciting. He’s supposed to be _happy_. Pippin insists, “I mean it. You’re just as handsome as you always were.” And he moves, because unlike most, they’re hobbits of action, and he tilts to press a chaste kiss to Merry’s forehead, right along the scar. When he settles back, Merry’s still frowning, but looking at him oddly. 

Then Merry grabs his face so swiftly that he doesn’t have time to stop it. Merry’s thick fingers twist into his hair, and he’s pulled forward, Merry closing the rest of the distance, and suddenly, they’re _kissing_.

Pippin lets out a little squeak of surprise, something like a gasp. Merry’s lips are smooth and soft on Pippin’s, his face warm, his nose bumping into Pippin’s at the side, his fingers firm in Pippin’s curls. He smells _good_ , or maybe that’s the bed, and he _feels_ better. Merry’s eyes are closed, and Pippin closes his too. Pippin doesn’t have much taste—maybe a few crumbs of lembas, maybe the sweetness of the water. But it’s an intoxicating feeling, because it’s _Merry_ , and Pippin’s had one too many dreams about this. He abruptly feels foolish for letting propriety get in his way. 

As soon as Merry lets go of his mouth, Pippin asks, “Why’d you do that?” He doesn’t know why; he just spoke without thinking.

Merry says, “You kissed me first.”

“On the forehead,” Pippin scoffs, feeling numb. His mouth feels strangely _empty_ , like there’s supposed to be something it—namely, Merry’s tongue. They’re too naughty to just be chaste; they should’ve kissed _properly_. He doesn’t need to tell Merry that; he can tell by the way the grin comes back to Merry’s face that he knows. 

He says, “We very nearly died, and we might yet, and I wanted to kiss you before I did.” Pippin nods his head in acceptance: fair enough. Maybe he didn’t want to die as _just friends_ either, but he’d rather not die at all. They might have a chance now, hidden behind ancient bark, but he knows the journey’s long from done. At least he has Merry. At least they can have some fun together on another night when the orcs and woods haven’t made them so exhausted. 

Merry’s hands are still in Pippin’s hair. They stay there, playing with it, until Pippin pushes to kiss Merry back, this time with an eager tongue swiping over Merry’s plump lips. Merry opens right up for him, and Pippin wraps his arms around Merry’s neck, pulling them tighter, all their warm bodies flush together through their tattered clothes. It makes him miss the Shire more than ever, but this was the best thing in Buckland anyway: his Merry. He can taste more of Merry with their mouths open, and he can’t seem to stop. Every time he means to pull away for air, Merry switches to a different angle, closes and opens again, and Pippin breathes through his nose so he can connect them, even though it’s messy and wet and Pippin doesn’t really know what he’s doing. 

Merry’s the one to finally stop them, chuckling fondly and pulling Pippin back by the hair, though now Pippin’s trying to nuzzle closer. A few last, small pecks, and they settle, looking at one another, and Merry smiles wide, muttering, “I knew you liked me.”

Pippin’s too tired to tease him about being arrogant. Or about waiting too long, or liking Pippin himself. Pippin just smiles back and snuggles closer, so their foreheads are touching and their arms and legs are a mess together, inseparable. Pippin has the fleeting wonder of whether or not Treebeard can see them, and what he must think of them interweaving all their branches and rubbing noses. Merry sighs, “G’night, Pip’,” and Pippin lets his eyes close, knowing Merry will be right there in the morning. 

They fall gradually asleep like that, far better than they’ve been in a good, long time.


End file.
